


The Survivors

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Sons and Lovers Continuity [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Established Relationship, M/M, Suicide, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1) The title is a not-so-obvious reference to Siegfried Sassoon's poem The Survivors. 2) I prompted Tito11 to write me an AU in which Edward survives, but his brother Jack is called up and killed near the end of the war. I had no intention of snatching back my own prompt OR of starting a new fic, but I am - er - borrowing a little of that idea back so I can have Edward adjusting to managing his estate with the help of his valet and lover Thomas. 3) I have no plans to make this a longer story at the moment (famous last words). 4) I do not know if people would have referred to the end of the war as Armistice Day in this context, but I am taking the best guess I can.</p></blockquote>





	The Survivors

Thomas tenses when Edward refuses to get dressed in the morning, choosing instead to slump in his dressing gown in the armchair by the bed, and barely acknowledging Thomas’s greeting. That’s always a bad sign. At least, it’s not a _good_ sign. Thomas sighs and heads back downstairs to take a tray of breakfast up for Edward.

He’s grown used to mornings like this. Edward is usually much better than he was – when Thomas talked him out of killing himself that night at the hospital, or when Jack was shot eight weeks before Armistice Day, leaving Edward to bear the guilt for a lifetime of rivalry with no chance of a reconciliation. But sometimes his pain is still too much for him.

Thomas knows to stay close to Edward on those days, make his excuses to his mother for him, and hide his shaving razor, just in case. But Thomas is never sure of what he should _say_.

“I brought you some breakfast,” he tries, returning to Edward’s room and perching on the edge of Edward’s bed which would have been both of theirs, in a just world.

Edward shrugs. “Thomas, you know I never want anything when I – when I’m in these moods.”

In private Thomas is always ‘Thomas’ to him, never ‘Barrow’, and Edward is always ‘Edward’. Thomas has more practice leading a life of deception. Not once has he forgotten to call Edward ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Courtenay’ when they’re around other people. Edward, however, often forgets things like that, and has drawn a few strange looks from his mother or the other staff.

“I brought you something just the same,” Thomas replies. He reaches for Edward’s hand. Edward hesitates a moment, then returns Thomas’s grip, firmly. _Better than nothing,_ Thomas thinks.

“Once you’ve eaten I’ll draw your bath, and then you can either cancel your appointments for the day, or _not_ ,” Thomas continues.

Edward sighs.

“You know I hate going out when everyone must be tut-tutting about ‘poor Mr. Courtenay’ behind my back,” he says, putting his free hand to his face to hide the grimace Thomas already knows is there.

He’s not completely wrong. Mrs. Courtenay is very bad like that; Thomas has had to bite his tongue on several occasions when she was going on about her son’s condition. _Can’t you see you’re making him feel_ worse _, you stupid woman…_ But he can’t leave Edward, which means he can’t do anything that would jeopardize his place here. Besides, he’s learning to mind his temper and instruct Edward to stand up for himself afterwards, when they’re alone together.

And things aren’t as bad as they seem to Edward when he sinks back into his depression. Thomas knows that, too.

“Who’s everyone?” Thomas asks.

“The tenants, the gardeners… Anyone who might talk. You know perfectly well what people are like.”

“Well, from the little _I_ know, no tenant of yours has ever said a word against you,” Thomas says. “And you only have the one gardener, who lost a couple fingers in France. If I remember the story right – which I do – he would never have gotten his place here back if it weren’t for your kindness.”

He wants to add that Edward, despite being blind and grieving and only twenty-six years old, is doing a far better job of managing his estate than Lord Grantham ever did when Thomas was at Downton Abbey. But that might be a sensitive subject. Besides, Edward has never cared much about Thomas’s work before he came here. Thomas decides it’s best not to get into all that.

“Fine,” Edward murmurs. “I won’t make you or Parker cancel everything. Not today.”

He gropes for the tray of food Thomas has brought him and picks up half a slice of toast, which he eats listlessly. When he finishes he reaches for another, changes his mind, and lets his slim strong hand drop down to his lap.

“It’s such a bother, though,” Edward says.

“Just have something to drink,” Thomas pleads. “And then you can tell me what’s such a bother.”

Edward moves his hand around the tray searching for his cup of tea. When he finds it he puts it to his mouth and takes a long drink. Thomas lets out a quiet breath in relief.

“Really, everything is – such a bother,” Edward says when he has finished his tea. “Like being outside when I can’t _see_ or enjoy anything, for one thing.”

Thomas leans closer to Edward and puts his hand on Edward’s arm, holds him so that they are almost embracing but for the small distance and the carved table between them. Edward relaxes into Thomas’s touch.

“I know that – but you can still feel things. Fresh air and warmth and all that; there’s bound to be something you can enjoy, isn’t there? More than staying in here all day…”

A muscle twitches in Edward’s face. Thomas stops talking. He wonders if there’s any point to what he’s saying or if he’s just repeating the platitudes he knows Edward hates and would hate himself if the roles were reversed.

“And if you’re tired or sad when you’re done, I’ll be right here,” he promises. “You know that.”

The faintest hint of a smile pulls at Edward’s mouth.

“All right,” he says. “I wish you could go in my stead; you’re more than clever enough to attend to any business I can manage, but I’ll go on two conditions.”

“What are they?”

“That you _will_ be here when I get back,” Edward says, commandingly. “And that you kiss me now.”

Thomas beams at him. “That won’t be hard, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The title is a not-so-obvious reference to Siegfried Sassoon's poem The Survivors. 2) I prompted Tito11 to write me an AU in which Edward survives, but his brother Jack is called up and killed near the end of the war. I had no intention of snatching back my own prompt OR of starting a new fic, but I am - er - borrowing a little of that idea back so I can have Edward adjusting to managing his estate with the help of his valet and lover Thomas. 3) I have no plans to make this a longer story at the moment (famous last words). 4) I do not know if people would have referred to the end of the war as Armistice Day in this context, but I am taking the best guess I can.


End file.
